In a castle in the sky, memories unravel the truth.
There lies Yan, a woman who delves into her ghost-infested past, knowing it will give her the answers she seeks. What she doesn't know: if she stays in her past for too long, she may never wake up...
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As if things couldn't get any worse, my past self decides to play Phasmophobia. You know, the type of situations you thrust yourself in to face your fear of ghosts head-on? I must have had a screw loose to be this bold. Not that it would seem like it at first, when you're taking a good stroll.
Night walks are just brilliant and supposedly stress-relieving. Imagine strolling into the green spaces you so adore, and the moon graces you with her everlasting presence, shining a light on the wooden bridge you must cross while ensuring that you will see the faint ripples in the waters. Everyone loves nature's healing miracle so much that anti-pastoral poems have evolved tenaciously. For once, I would agree with them.
Because nature decides to place a rundown house near the end of Eterna Forest and call it Old Chateau. How very hospitable. Maybe it's for the Ursaring family like in Goldilocks. Maybe upon entry, I'll be shredded to bits or pounded to dust.
The exterior isn't very attractive, but it's revolting enough to make you wish whoever painted this knows better than to coat walls with obsidian. He must have thought this will be the best non-haunted spot ever that people can reside in and wants to express it with purple mosaic glass framed by grey windows (as if this isn't reminiscent of Spiritomb or some other Ghost-type, because Ghost-types are hardly purple and never loved lavender and grey will never be a reminder for graves). Imagine having to make it seem luxurious with a golden-brown roof, and slapping a crimson door onto the manor to assure you of your safety.
Whatever.
I open the door and leave it slightly ajar, just in case. Setting my eyes on my surroundings, I steel myself for any Ghost-types that may threaten me. This is the next best place to die, coming in second after the Lost Tower, and I stand at its entrance as if I'm truly delighted to plunge into some thrill seekers' trail to death.
Perhaps I have misjudged this place. The golden chandelier with its glaring candles boasts a posh feel. The glitter of the stairs and the smoothness of the red carpet suggest a maintenance fit for the rich. Old Chateau, unlike its shabby façade, hides an aureate, ornate soul. The only issue lies with the two Sandshrew statues whose bloodshot eyes shoot me like lasers.
My instructor must definitely live here. They must have scared their visitors (thieves, even) with "ghosts" to safeguard their private space. I just have to understand why I would be here in the first place, and who they are, whether I'm just conveniently there, or I had an intention.
My feet take me through a gilded archway with runic engravings, pushing me from a luxurious hall to a fine banquet where a long rectangular table dons a white cloth and a red sash. A refrigerator hums nearby, with the drip-drop of water from the kitchen sink adding to the background music. The table is flourished with what appears to be a candlelight dinner, lidded menus for each empty chair.
Only one plate has its lid resting by its side, and it isn't empty. The meal—if it can even be considered one—is a human head who has lived through the ages, wrinkles exposed to midnight alongside fluffy white tuffs, two bronze eyes flitting across the room before stopping at me. It's alive. The dissociated head levitates and gradually grows a body suited in a fine tuxedo, nothing too gaudy, and it dangles a clean cloth on its left arm.
"The mistress has called for you to enjoy your meal, our esteemed guest. You deserve this, for sure, after the work you have done for us," it says, its voice low and raspy.
So it seems, the head of the Old Chateau is female, and I have run an errand for her before I left the place. Furthermore, she has to be dead, or I wouldn't be staring right through a ghost butler.
"Why am I here?" My mouth opens on its own accord, coincidentally voicing out one of my concerns.
The butler walks over and takes my wrist. With a soft grip, he pulls me upstairs, my hand brushing against the cool rails, my turquoise hood bouncing off my back. It is a slightly hilarious sight, to be inverting the positions of the puller and the pulled, how I am the one climbing the steps before him. Sometimes, it makes me wonder if I'm truly stuck in a nightmare that tries too hard to be one, only to fall flat as a comedy.
Five doors stand along the hallway on passing through the archway above the dining room. We enter the rightmost room without a word, though I still wish to complain about his cold grip. As the door slams shut behind me, I glance around a typical bedroom that contains a bed, a window, and a clock, all too crammed for space, really. For a mansion this big, it is strange for the bedroom to be smaller than average.
"Thank you, Yan," a silky voice shoots me, out of the mouth of a girl sitting on the bed, fiddling with a red bow, her long, yellow streaks covering almost half of her profile.
So... a ghost girl summoned me over to the Lost Tower to seal another ghost? That's really one of a kind.
She bends over and yanks a locked box from under the bed, her smile shrinking as she removes the lid to reveal white strips each with a red line atop a red stickman whose head has only a black dot and whose body bears a white dot. Cleanse Tags.
She shoves the box in my hands and level her eyes with mine. My trembling hand only has to reach out to grab them to quell my fears. If my suspicions are right, I removed these tags for her so she could freely move around the house. Cleanse Tags often serve as a weaker repel for trainers, but they are excellent against ghosts so long as they are stuck to a surface that bars entry and exit for them. Sealing rooms with these tags is one such example.
For someone so out of wits in the presence of ghosts, it sure is funny that I'd know that well, given that I would never enter anywhere like the Old Chateau, places with a history of hauntings. Yet, this prior knowledge is transferred from someone who knows me well.
Could I have been related to a family of channellers? It could be possible, but a tad bit cliché.
I am escorted out of the room and the butler vanishes almost instantly I step out of it and place the tag on the door. So this is it, that the tag traps her inside. I released her last.
Somehow, this act, while done in reverse of the truth, calms me down. What ails me must truly be the presence of ghosts, but I know there has to be more to this. I just do.
The next room is, of course, the dining room, the butler's territory. Though, something is off.
If these two are the last rooms from which I remove the tags, then how did I know what to do?
My head swivels so hard to the tinted window that my neck cracks. A gust of wind purrs and caresses my sleeves.
